


winter came breathing like dragon lace

by Decorera



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Courting Rituals, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter At Kaer Morhen, courting gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decorera/pseuds/Decorera
Summary: So we all love Suzikiblu's Courting Jewelry A/B/O series.  But how do the witchers deal with Geralt's beautiful new jewelry bedecked self when it comes time to winter in Kaer Morhen?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 735





	winter came breathing like dragon lace

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [you wear nothing but you wear it so well](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741072) by [suzukiblu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu). 



A.N. So. The wonderful Suzukiblu wrote the Courting Jewelry A/B/O verse and if you have not read it, stop reading this immediately and go read it now. Don’t walk. Run. There is a link just up a little.  
Really, this story won’t make any sense if you haven’t read it.

I am tagging this as Geralt/Jaskier even though Jaskier is Sir NotAppearingInThisFic because Geralt’s alpha in this story is Jaskier and you need to know that for the story. However Geralt ain’t telling the boys. Yet. As I was writing, I had ideas for two different stories, each respectively from Lambert and Eskel’s POV as this one is from Vesemir’s, dealing with more fall out over the winter. Not promising those stories will arrive soon. If you are a dedicated reader of my work, then you know I write when on vacation and those are rare. When they get written, Jaskier will appear in those.

Secondly, if you are a Netflix only fan, welcome! Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert are characters from the books and video games. They are amazing characters and hopefully I have done them justice here. All you need to know from the books, games, or comics for this story is: the Wolf school has a keep called Kaer Morhen and traditionally the witchers winter there after a three quarter year of traveling the Path. Oh, also my Polish language notice: Roach (Geralt’s horse’s name) is the Polish name of a fish. Its like calling your cat Trout.

winter came breathing like dragon lace

Vesemir looks down from the ancient rampart he is mortaring when something bright catches his eye. He frowns. Nothing in view but Geralt driving up the pass with a wagon of supplies for winter and Roach tied placidly behind. The sun glints off something shiny on Geralt’s wrist and the frown lines on Vesemir’s face deepen.

“Well shit.” He mutters as Geralt drives close enough for Vesemir to see the glimmering jewelry adorning his ears and arms. “That’s going to be trouble.”

By the time Vesemir drags his old bones down off the wall, Geralt is unloading the wagon and almost done. The sparkling yellow earrings twinkle brightly in the sun while Geralt hefts huge barrels, one in each much muscular arm, and it makes Vesemir smile fondly. The mentor waits until Geralt puts down the barrel before approaching with a small smile on his lined face.

“Wolf, good to see you.” He slaps Geralt warmly on his upper arm and his fingers brush a thick heavy armband under Geralt’s shirt. “You are looking well.” Vesemir’s golden eyes dip downward to glance at the beautiful silver torque highlighting the plainer but familiar witcher pendant. His eyes slid back up just in time to catch nervousness in Geralt’s gaze before it is wiped clean. Vesemir feels his chest turning cold but he summons up a cheerful smile and gives Geralt a nod. “Looking real good, boy.” He adds gruffly before clearing his throat. 

“Eskel is working on the walls on the southern side of the keep and Lambert is fishing.” A distant boom punctuates his words. Vesemir frowns while Geralt huffs a laugh. “Damn boy, I told him I’d thrash him if he fished like that in our lake. Dropping bombs completely upsets the ecosystem. Alright, you finish here and then take over my work on the northern wall. I need to go have a chat with our littlest witcher.”

Geralt laughs and stands straighter. Vesemir watches in pleasure as the weight of the human world falls away from Geralt’s big shoulders. “Lambert hates it when you call him that,” the boy reminded him. As if he needed to be told that.

“He’ll always be the youngest of us,” Vesemir said gravely as he allowed a brief twinkle to enter his eye, “Nothing to be done about that.” 

Vesemir left Geralt unloading and made sure he was well enough away before letting out a blistering curse. “Trouble, damn it.” Geralt had never come to winter wearing courting jewelry. Hell, he had never had a heat during winter; not since that disastrous winter where both Eskel and Lambert had nearly come to serious blows with the sweet scent of an omega preheat burning up their noses. The old beta had taken Geralt aside then and taught him the alchemical formulas Vesemir’s own master had used to push their heat back; never to stop it coming completely but push it to a more convenient time. The rest of that winter had been hard, but nothing broke which could not be mended, including hearts.

But now… Vesemir indulged in another good swear. Geralt had found himself an alpha. Vesemir found himself at a loss. As a beta, he never felt the driving urges of either an alpha or an omega and his nose, though sensitive enough to pick up a fiend at 50 yards, never seems to alert him to the pheromones the others were so sensitive to. 

“I don’t have time for this. The boys will be done with their work before I know it.” Vesemir grimaces. There was no helping it. He set off for the attics. It takes a quarter glass of sorting through dusty chests and crates before he finds the belongings of Grandmaster Rennes. Vesemir himself had packed away all of the belonging of the witchers killed in the Kaedwenian massacre; hoping beyond hope that one day the School of the Wolf would rise again, and their lost brethren’s equipment would be needed. But the invasion and theft of the mutagens hammered the death nail into the school’s coffin. Years of dust coat the beautifully carved chests and hastily constructed crates like a funeral shroud. Vesemir shakes his head and pulls out a worn leather journal before closing Rennes’ chest firmly. 

Vesemir leaves the past behind and goes to the kitchen to check on the stew he had left simmering since morning. The sturdy metal pot barely wiggles on its hook over the fire as he gives the contents a good stir. The old witcher eyes the journal lying innocently on the tough kitchen table. The old oak table was still standing after years of boys learning to use knives to cook and not kill. The soft well-cared-for leather journal looks incongruitous next to the scarred old wood, but Vesemir watches it like a snake.

‘Let me remind you Vesemir that you are the sword master of Kaer Morhen, not the Grandmaster of Kaer Morhen.’ Vesemir picks up the book warily as the memory, still vivid after almost a hundred years, bullies his way into his thoughts.

\--

“Let me remind you Vesemir that you are the sword master of Kaer Morhen, not the Grandmaster of Kaer Morhen. It is not for you to say how the mutagens will be applied to our recruits. That is the job of Master Mage Sulla and me.”

Vesemir took off his hat to drag his hand through his thick black hair. “I know, sir, but the boy has already been through the Trials once. You risk losing the most promising young wolf the school has produced in thirty years for experiments?”

Vesemir wanted to growl as Rennes’ cold golden eyes stared him down contemptuously. “I am risking nothing. Omegas have proven to be more flexible, more mutable, than alphas or betas. Even more so in their adolescence. He took to the mutagens beautifully and this second round might make the strongest witcher ever.” 

Vesemir stopped dead in the hallway, “You think Geralt is going to present as an omega? He’s already a head taller than most of the other boys!”

Rennes’ voice dripped with condescension, “I forget how scent blind betas can be. There is no mistaking it. He’ll present soon which is why this must be done now. We don’t have time for your mewling, sword master. The boy will be fine.”

Vesemir couldn’t hold Rennes’ gaze. He chewed on his words like an almost rotten piece of jerky before spitting them out. “If Geralt is going to present soon, then surely he needs to be removed from the barracks. Eskel, Berd, and Joacchin have already presented as alpha. If he presents unexpectedly at night,”

Rennes interrupted him, “When the boy presents, he will be brought to me as is tradition. Once the Grandmaster of the keep takes his first heat, none of the boys will dare to do more then perhaps paw at him in the hallways. And if Geralt can’t drive off heat-crazed boys, then I think you haven’t been doing your job properly, sword master.”

Vesemir took a step back. He’d always been uncomfortable with how the omega witchers’ heats were handled. True, that in a keep full of killers already under stress from a difficult job and a world that despised them, it was better to keep fights to a minimum. Also true, it was best for a young omega to have an experienced alpha to partner the first heat. And true most of all, the ancient ways since humanity first crossed over during the conjunction of the spheres had always held that omegas were partnered by the strongest alpha; to breed strong children for the village or clan. But it always left a bad taste in his mouth every time one of the omega witchers slipped into Grandmaster Rennes room. Most especially the young omegas.

\---

“What the hell are you wearing?” Lambert’s strident tones echoes through the empty halls of Kaer Morhen. Vesemir swears and darts into the next room with the speed and grace of a man in his twenties, not one who just past his two hundredth birthday, before Lambert has a chance to shove his foot further into his own mouth. 

“Get those fish cleaned and in the kitchen, Lambert, unless you don’t want dinner tonight. Geralt, if you’re done patching the wall then there is firewood to be chopped. Now.” The two witchers hold each other’s stares for a moment longer before doing as they were told: Lambert with a half-hearted sneer, Geralt with his lips in a tight angry line.

Vesemir sighs and follows Lambert into the kitchen. He pulls out the bowl of bread dough and begins shaping loafs while he watches the young alpha. Lambert bangs and clatters about; getting scales and fish guts all over his workspace. Vesemir rolls his eyes silently. 

“Did you see that?!”

And there it is. 

“What?” Vesemir asks mildly as he finishes shaping the tray of bread for the oven. “A bird fly in the kitchen, or something?” He picks up a knife as Lambert scoffs.

“Don’t play the fool, old man. I mean, all those sparklies Geralt’s all dressed up in. Like a pansy knight’s horse, all silver bells and braided!”

Vesemir slices neat cuts in the top of the loafs with the ease of a long familiarity with knives. “Seems like Geralt’s found himself an alpha.” 

Lambert hisses like a katakan and clenches bloody hands into fists, as if Vesemir has struck him instead of speaking to him. “He already has an alpha!” Lambert insists.

Vesemir calmly put the tray of bread into the old wood burning oven. Then he turns to glare over at Lambert. “Oh really? You think you or Eskel can put me down, at long last?”

Lambert startles and looks lost, but Vesemir doesn’t let him regain his feet. “There is only one Grandmaster of Kaer Morhen and that’s me. I say, Geralt can partner whatever alpha he wants. You can live with that or you can get out of my keep.” 

Vesemir can almost see the ember of resentment towards Vesemir which Lambert carries deep in his gut flare up and burn Lambert, hotter and hotter, until lava comes spewing out. Vesemir endures the cursing with stoic silence and in the end, Lambert slams his way out of the kitchen. Vesemir sighs faintly.

Dinner is a trial. Lambert clearly told Eskel about the courting jewelry as they both show up at the same time and it is all their eyes can focus on. Geralt is angry in his own quiet way, but he lifts his head and glares when the two golden gazes follow the gentle swing of his earrings. Vesemir thunks a pitcher of beer down on the table and the trio of younger witchers startle. “Dinners ready,” Vesemir said laconically. “Go get your bowls.”

Luckily even hormones cannot deter hungry witchers from Vesemir’s food. The old witcher watches with satisfaction burning warmly in his belly as they devour bowls of stew, fresh bread and cheeses, the fish Lambert caught delicately baked by Vesemir with fall vegetables and rosemary, and heaps of wild grains and nuts from the mountain. His boys eat till they are full, drink till they are softened around the edges, and the tension eases. Stories of successful hunts flow freely as the air chills and the moon rises.

They get just drunk enough that Vesemir is a little too sleepy to catch Lambert opening his fat mouth. “So tell us about your alpha, Geralt. I’m amazed you found a man with balls big enough to plough the cunt of the great white wolf, or whatever shit the bards are calling you now.”

Geralt stills and Eskal lifts his head; his scared face focused intently on his brother witcher. “Seems like he’s rich enough.” Eskel adds quietly and lets his eyes drift down to the torque. Vesemir does not like the tone in his voice. Eskel is probably the calmest of all the young witchers but his anger, once roused, lasts months.

Geralt is no wilting flower and he bares his teeth in a smile, “He’s a good fuck.” Geralt replies calmly and the warning smile turns into a smirk as Lambert grits his teeth. Even Vesemir’s beta nose can pick up the stink of Lambert’s jealousy. This is going to go bad fast. Eskel shifts as if he might stand and Vesemir’s eyes snap to him. It was a feint though.

Lambert’s drunken voice practically howls, “Fuck yes, he needs to be rich if he’s going to afford the great White Wolf! What do you go for these days, Geralt? A pretty ring and a comb for your mouth? Two bracelets for a fuck?”

Shit. The viciousness of the attack takes everyone off guard. Geralt sits like a statue as Eskel whips around to stare at Lambert. The young alpha seems like he even shocked himself; blinking a bit in the lamplight. A low growl starts up from Eskel’s throat.

Vesemir slams his hands down on the table and stands with a screech of the wooden bench against the stone floor. Everyone turns to look at him. His eyes meet Lambert’s and the young witcher flinches. “Walk away from this table, right now.” 

Lambert looks away. He hesitates a long moment then, with a snarl of frustration, Lambert grabs the pitcher of beer and leaves the hall. Eskel’s eyes glitter in the firelight as Vesemir’s eyes fall on him next. Eskel meets his gaze and Vesemir feels his hand instinctively drifting towards his belt knife under the weight of that challenging gaze.

Another screech of a bench breaks the stare down. Geralt shoves away from the table and silently heads for his tower. Eskel shifts as if he might rise and follow, but after another moment his weight settles. He reaches for the last roll and calmly tears a bit off to chew. Vesemir looks at him for a long moment before joining him. They drink in silence. Vesemir considers the other witcher. Eskel is the same age as Geralt; created here at Kaer Morhen at the same time and under the tenure of the same Grandmaster. 

Vesemir knows where he stands with Lambert. He brought the boy in, directed his mutations, trained him, and sent him back out into the world. Whatever mistakes made or flaws left unsmoothed in Lambert are Vesemir’s own fault. It also means that Lambert is unlikely to challenge his authority. But Eskel, and likewise Geralt, were taught by many teachers. 

“Am I going to have to worry about you too?”

Eskel’s scarred lips twist and Vesemir can’t tell what teacher is shining out of Eskel’s amber eyes right now. Eskel coolly lifts a glass of vodka to his lips. He sips and it seems an eternity until the glass is set down.

“You know Geralt can take care of himself.”

Vesemir’s eyes narrow, “I know that.”

“Do you?” Eskel questions quietly. “Geralt can take both Lambert and I on at once in the sparring ring, and you are hovering over him like a hen with a single chick.”

Vesemir pours himself another glass. “I am not.” He grumbles.

Eskel snorts. He eyes the bottle for a long minute. He takes a deep breath.

“I would never treat Geralt as Rennes taught me omegas should be treated.”

Vesemir snaps his gaze to Eskel’s who smirks and taps his nose. “You smell of Rennes. Did you go digging around in his clothes?” Eskel chuckles, probably at his expression, the brat. 

Vesemir scowls. “I admit to being concerned. Geralt has never shown interest in accepting any alpha before, much less either of you. I thought perhaps the additional mutations might have…unexpected side effects. When he arrived here, bedeck in all that newfangled omega jewelry, well, I realized I must have been wrong. You two made your preferences clear years ago.”

“And so did Geralt,” Eskel points out. With a very firm reliance on his herbal remedies, Geralt had very decidedly closed the metaphorical and physical door on both Lambert and Eskel. He had certainly never invited either to his bed for fun either.

Vesemir concedes the point but continues, “You also have never been challenged for Geralt’s attention before now.”

Eskel nods, “True. We three… we are a pack.” Eskel looks at Vesemir calmly and Vesemir nods; understanding the bond between the three young witchers. More than brothers, less than blood, united under one pseudo-parental authority. “Whatever temporary alpha Geralt is accepting does not change that.”

Vesemir hums pensively, “You think this alpha is only temporary?”

Eskel shrugs, “I think, unless he is an elf, he can’t be anything but temporary.” The grim statement hung in the air like the stench of a fish left out of the ice for too long. “And…” Eskel continues “He doesn’t smell like an elf.”

Vesemir raises his eyebrow. “You know who he is?” 

Eskel blinks and guiltily slides his eyes away. Vesemir frowns at him. “Eskel, if you have been sniffing through Geralt’s pants like some sort of horny teenager, then you are washing all the dishes.”

Eskel blinks and then sighs, “Well, best get to it then.” He stands and begins to collect the dishes.

Vesemir’s jaw drops. “Eskel!” The man ignores him and carries the plates into the kitchen. “Geralt is going to be so angry at you.” He warns the younger man when he returns.

Eskel snorts, “He’s angry at you too.”

“Oh Melitele, save me from these children. What did I do?” 

“Came to dinner stinking of Rennes right after Geralt shows up with courting jewelry.”

Vesemir curses as Eskel smugly passes by with another armful of dirty dishes. Nothing for it now. Vesemir stands and goes back into the kitchen to pick up Rennes’ journal. Then he retreats from Eskel’s grim gaze. He settles into his own soft leather chair by a warm fire in his own empty tower. The keep used to house dozens of witchers. With only four occupants now, everyone has as much privacy as a sensory enhanced individual could want. Vesemir lights the lone oil lamp and begins to read. For hours he does nothing else, save feed the wick of the lamp into the flame. It is late at night when he at last puts down the journal. Vesemir doesn’t sleep. He drinks. He drinks a lot.

The next morning, Vesemir grouchily hands out his orders to the three young witchers. Kaer Morhen needs lots of work to prepare it for the long winter months when the deep snow comes. Vesemir feels absolutely no shame as he doles out enough work to keep all three men busy dawn to noon. Vesemir himself heads to the yard. He works through his sword forms, slowly at first to warm himself and then even slower to check and correct every mistake. The boys show up with their swords after noon, wet from cleaning off mortar, wood chips, and chicken shit. Vesemir puts them through their paces.

Even the hours of hard work aren’t enough to quell Lambert’s fire. Vesemir shares a weary glance with Eskel as Lambert spiritedly spars with Geralt. Vesemir admires Lambert’s passion really. He’s never tried to quench that fire with Eskel’s cool calculation or bury it under Geralt’s mountain-strong devotion to duty. Lambert’s fire can drive him past the hardest of situations and burn brightly in the darkest night. However, fire like that can also boil in a man’s belly like basilisk’s poison.

Lambert is driving himself hard, but every strike is blocked by Geralt’s strong sword or dodged. Eskel slows his own forms to watch as Geralt moves with supreme grace and skill. Lambert can’t match him no matter how hard he tries. Lambert throws a sign into a sword duel, and Vesemir is tempted to intervene, but Eskel was right. Geralt can take care of himself. The magical fire passes within an inch of Geralt’s silver white hair and Geralt knocks Lambert into the dirt with a well-timed Aard.

Lambert scrambles to his feet but stopped cold at Geralt’s abruptly called “Hold!”. Hell, the whole yard come to a stop. Geralt has never asked for a hold before. They watch as Geralt walks over to a long weathered bench and carefully pulls out a beautiful comb from his hair and inspects it. Once Geralt is sure it is unharmed, he places it carefully down on the bench. Vesemir watches Lambert swallowing hard. Geralt carefully takes off his jewelry and with each piece gently handled and respected, Vesemir can see Lambert growing angrier and angrier. Like a basilisk swelling its poison gland before acid comes flying at your face. Vesemir watches silently as Geralt come back to the fight.

Now they really go at it. Signs and swords are flying. Every hit blocked is another gulp of poison brewing in Lambert’s belly. Geralt makes a glancing hit on Lambert’s arm and he slows; expecting Lambert to acknowledge the hit. Instead the poison erupts. Lambert disgracefully slams the flat of his blade against the last piece of jewelry Geralt left on; the small nipple hoops teasingly visible through his sweat soaked shirt.

Geralt doesn’t even flinch though his eyes bleed with hurt. He darts back. Lambert snarls and Vesemir is across the yard before any of them can move. Vesemir slams into Lambert barehanded and breaks his stance with one quick jab and a sweep of his foot. Lambert swings for him; unbalanced and blind to who the attack has come from but reacting as any battle trained warrior would. Vesemir ducks the blow and comes up inside his range. He grabs Lambert’s sword hand and then put him down… hard.

Lambert drops his sword with a whoosh of expelled air and a stunned look on his face. Vesemir lands on his back and bears all his weight onto the younger man. Lambert struggles simply to catch his breath and then fights instinctually as Vesemir grabs hold of the back of his neck and digs his fingers into Lambert’s scent glans. Vesemir presses Lambert’s nose into the dirt and holds on while Lambert screams, curses, and tries to throw him off. Lambert’s breath is short, then gasping, and finally thready before the young alpha whines highly. 

Vesemir lets go.

Lambert lies in the dirt just breathing. Vesemir bites the inside of his lip in worry but doesn’t move. Neither does Geralt or Eskel. Slowly Lambert gets up to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Lambert swallows thickly and doesn’t look any of them in the eye. He slowly walks to Vesemir. The old beta eyes him and Lambert whines again, softer this time. Vesemir shifts his weight; just a little, just enough that his neck is a bit more prominent. Lambert’s eyes raise to meet his. Shame dances in his eyes, but his shoulders sing of relief as he leans in and noses gently at Vesemir’s scent glands. Vesemir hums softly and Lambert’s breath shudders. He rubs his cheek firmly against the scent gland, getting Vesemir’s scent all over him. Then he settles down on the grass to clean his sword.

Vesemir nods between the two other witchers, “Eskel. Geralt. Pair up. Swords and signs.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow but goes willingly enough. Geralt is still furious and he doesn’t. He stares angrily at Lambert until a whistle from Vesemir has him stomping over to Eskel. Vesemir watches the fight from the sidelines. Eskel is very good with signs and Geralt is hard pressed to keep up especially with his anger draining his focus. Geralt’s anger has always been easily roused and cruel but doesn’t last. Vesemir can see the moment he puts his anger aside. Geralt dodges more and uses his own strengths to push Eskel. He moves faster, hits harder, uses his sword more skillfully, and in time Eskel yields.

Geralt stands alone in the middle of the yard, panting but victorious. Eskel drops down in the grass to join Lambert, completely worn out. Vesemir draws his own sword and Geralt’s eyes focuses on him like a raptor sighting prey. “You done, Wolf?” Vesemir calls, “Or do you want more?”

A sudden stillness settles over the witchers as Geralt considers. There is a particular truth which all of them have accepted several years ago as Geralt began to outstrip both Lambert and Eskel. That truth is, that if Geralt wanted, he could challenge Vesemir for control of the school; what little is left of it. Vesemir has been waiting for that challenge for years now. Wolves are ruled by the strongest and the wisest. He can feel himself aging, slowing. Soon he will be too slow, and a monster will be faster. It is coming. Geralt stares at him across the yard and Vesemir can see him consider it. Vesemir almost hopes he will challenge (even though he would fight harder than he ever has in his life to win) if only to live to see the first omega Grandmaster of the Wolf Witcher School before his bones decorate some monsters den.

“No. I’m done for the day.”

Their world inhales as Geralt calmly declines. Eskel and Lambert begin to glance at each other and Vesemir glares irritably at the young witcher approaching him. Vesemir grumpily allows Geralt to rub his hands against Vesemir’s scent glands in a conciliatory gesture. Eskel follows him and soon all three of the young witchers smell of Vesemir. The old witcher is reminded nostalgically of these same young men running about causing havoc and begging to scent after some infraction or another. He grumps and reached out without looking to comb his gnarled fingers through Lambert’s thin hair. Lambert’s breath heaves out in a pleased sigh.

Well, they are good boys really.

Vesemir watches pensively as Geralt begins to carefully replace his courting jewelry. Whoever this alpha was, Geralt is clearly attached to them. Each piece was neatly polished and carefully handled. Finally, Vesemir nods to himself.

“Geralt, you are chopping the wood for the dinner fires.”

“I just did that yesterday.”

“Fine. Eskel, you are chopping the wood. Geralt, you are washing the dishes, and Lambert. You are cooking tonight.”

All three young men look up in surprise. Eskel raises an eyebrow. “Have you had enough of us and decided to poison us then?” Lambert scowls, looks as though he was going to get up to tussle, and then settles for throwing some grass at Eskel. 

“Fuck you, I can cook.”

“Debatable.”

Geralt interrupts them curiously, “What are you going to do then?” 

Vesemir snorts at him, “None of your goddamn business. Now get cleaned up and get to work!”

“Yes, Vesemir.” They chorus like they were all ten again and Vesemir looks to the heavens for patience.

Dinner, or what could charitable be called dinner, was on the table and the three young witchers look at each other.

“Where’s Vesemir?” Lambert grouses, “I slave all day over a hot fire and an even hotter oven to cook a nice meal…”

“Is that what this is?” Geralt interjects but Lambert just talks louder. He’s good at that.

“And he doesn’t even have the decency to show up to dinner on time!”

“You sound like a housewife,” Eskel notes.

Vesemir sighs as the sounds of bickering greet his arrival in the hall. “I could hear you three all the way down the stairs. By the gods, you’d think you were still pups and not grown witchers.”

They turned to include him in their familiar bickering, but the three sets of golden eyes fall curiously on the cloth draped bundle he’s carried downstairs. He slaps Eskel’s hand away from the cloth covering and announces, “Dinner first.”

The three frown but sit. They begin to eat.

“Dear gods! Lambert,” groans Vesemir.

“Fuck you. You hate it so much then you cook tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Dinner passes swiftly and Vesemir sighs grumpily as not a single one of the other men suggested someone go and get the usual after dinner bottles of alcohol. Vesemir sits back in his chair and sips at his beer, wondering how long he can torture them. Predictably Lambert makes a break for the cloth. Ah well.

Lambert pulls back the cloth and the three witchers look curiously at the beautiful tooled set of leather saddle bags. They are smaller than the usual type witchers used but they are balanced nicely with soft lambswool underneath for a horse’s comfort. Geralt traces the Wolf school symbol carved into the hard leather while Eskel, also predictably, shoves his nose into the leather for a good sniff. Lambert and Geralt look at him expectantly but Eskel shook his head. They all look curiously at Vesemir.

“This set of saddlebags belonged to my teacher, Barmin.” The young witchers look at each other but none of them seem to have caught on yet. Vesemir smiles to himself. Young fools. “None of you knew him. He died in a fight with a higher vampire years before any of you were born.”

Eskel looks back at Vesemir. The old witcher could practically see the wheels in his mind spinning. Vesemir chuckles. 

Lambert shook his head, “They are a little small, aren’t they? Barmin have a thing against clothes or blankets?” 

Vesemir smiled wryly, “Barmin used hindquarter saddle bags for most of his gear.”

Lambert lifted them but set them down again quickly. “Heavy though.” He said with an expression like a cat looking at a closed door.

Vesemir sighs and rises from his seat. The young witchers satisfyingly scatter out of his way. Vesemir passes the saddlebag and reveals a long wooden case out of the covering cloth. The wooden case is also beautifully carved but this time with dwarven sigils and designs. Geralt cocked his head curiously as he studies the sigils. “Clan Zigrin?”

Vesemir hums an affirmative and opens the saddle bags. The witchers look. Geralt blinks.

“It’s a jewelry box.” Eskel murmurs as Vesemir carefully unloads the courting jewelry from the saddlebag jewelry case and places each piece carefully into its spot in the wooden case, which when opened has the same velvet dividers and cups as the saddle bag. Vesemir pulls out necklaces and bracelets; each from their own little spot. He pulls out a soft velvet bags filled with sparkling pins and jeweled earrings. He even pulls out a thin delicate collar of solid gold and diamonds from the largest compartment. When at last the saddlebags are empty and the wooden case full, Vesemir shows them the cunning compartment in the saddle bag for the polish cloths and tiny tins of polish.

Empty, the saddle bags weigh practically nothing and the witchers pass it around, curious as cats about the jewelry saddle bag. 

Lambert looks up at him, frowning. “But courting jewelry has only come into fashion in the last hundred and thirty years,” he asks.

Vesemir eyes him for showing that very precise knowledge. Lambert colors and his eyes drift toward Geralt before snapping back to Vesemir. Typical. Vesemir rests his hands on the dwarven jewelry box. “Barmin mated with a Dwarf, Lobi of Clan Zigrin from Mahakam. As you certainly know, the current customs of omegas choosing their mates through courtship is something human culture has only recently absorbed from Dwarven culture. Courting jewelry has been a time-honored tradition of Dwarven culture since before the Elves came.” He meets Geralt’s astonished gaze. “Barmin was a powerful witcher and a good man. He was well loved and mated for over a hundred years. I watched him carry his courting jewelry everywhere in that saddlebag. There was only one time I was with him when he met up with Lobi and saw him wear his courting jewelry.” Vesemir made sure his voice was as firm as the mountain. “Barmin in his courting jewelry was the most beautiful creature I ever saw.”

Vesemir presses the saddlebag jewelry box into Geralt’s hands. “You use hind quarter saddlebags too, don’t you?” He asks calmly. “These rest over the horse’s withers. So you can carry both.”

Geralt swallows and looked down at the saddle bags. Gently he slides one of his rings off, a pretty little silver ring with a flower design, and fits it gently into one of the many slots for rings. His callused fingers slide reverently over the soft velvet and the metal still warm from his skin. 

Vesemir looks up to catch Eskel smiling softly and Lambert, quiet for once, watching Geralt intently. Geralt carefully puts away most of his jewelry into the bag but pulls the little ring back out and slides it back onto his finger. They all watch as he moved pieces around; experimenting to try and find the best balance between the two bags. Eskel makes some quiet suggestions and Lambert holds his tongue.

Finally, Geralt empties the bag and puts all of his jewelry back on. He picks up the bag and looks at Vesemir. Words seem to catch in his throat but eventually Geralt leans in. Vesemir wraps his arms around his boy. 

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers.

“You’re welcome, my boy.”

The End … for now.

Postscript

Lambert leans his chair back and throws his feet up on the table. He tosses a cheeky grin Vesemir’s way. The old man growls in his general direction. “So when am I going to get something nice for a present, huh? I guess we always knew who your favorite is.”

“Go drown in ditchwater, Lambert.”

“Seriously! There is a whole keep full of heirlooms and only pretty boy Geralt gets you up in the attic to search through your mentor’s stuff! No fair.”

There was a satisfying yelp as Eskel knocks Lambert’s chair over. Vesemir sighs.

A.N. 

Of course, Vesemir climbs back up to the attics and before spring, Lambert is wearing Barmin’s scabbard and Eskel is paging through his personal bestiary. I love me some grumpy dad Vesemir. It is true. Thank you to Suzukiblu for the creation of the wonderful Courting Jewelry A/B/O series. First time I wanted to write fanfiction of a fanfiction, but there you go. I obviously took things a little further then Suzukiblu with the idea of courting jewelry being a flexible cultural thing (Jaskier noting Geralt’s nipple piercings are old fashioned.) Since the Witchers live very long lives, if they aren’t eaten, I brushed the fic with even older cultural norms for A/B/O; cultural norms which Jaskier as the modern man we know and love would consider antiquated and a really big no no, but which Geralt might have encountered in his youth. As we all know, cultural norms we grow up with can be hard to shake, even with good self-esteem.


End file.
